


In Life and Death

by RandomnonsenseDA (B1nary_S0lo)



Series: Rora Surana [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Background Wynne (Dragon Age), Brief Alistair & Fiona, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Past Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, The Calling (Dragon Age), Warden (Dragon Age) is Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B1nary_S0lo/pseuds/RandomnonsenseDA
Summary: Alistair, now king and grieving the loss of the Warden, forms an unlikely friendship with Anora. An episodic story about Alistair's first decade or so ruling Fereldan.
Relationships: Alistair & Teagan Guerrin, Alistair/Anora Mac Tir
Series: Rora Surana [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/470353
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	1. Adjustments and Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> These stories were originally written a couple years ago for Alistair Appreciation Week over on Tumblr. Everything is set in my canon DA universe, in which the Warden, Rora Surana, is dead, Alistair is ruling alone, and Anora is not queen. Though each chapter kind of stands alone, put together they form an overarching narrative. Put together, this whole story covers a period of about ten years, from shortly after the end of Origins to the Inquisition era.

As the members of the royal council filed from the meeting room, Alistair and Teagan stood off to the side talking quietly. At least that was the intention. Alistair struggled to keep his voice down.

“Teagan,” Alistair said. “I made a promise! You know that.”

Teagan shushed him gently, glancing around.

“I know, Alistair,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But you know we can’t afford to offend the Templars right now. Your uncle agrees with me.”

Alistair clenched his fists, struggling to keep his voice level.

“So, you’re saying the plan is a failure?” he said. “The Circle won't receive autonomy?”

Teagan shook his head. “Not at this time.”

Alistair let out a huff of anger.

“When are things going to _change_ around here, Teagan?” he said. “I-I study all the laws, I meet with every arl and bann, and yet I can accomplish nothing _real_. This—”

He let out a deep breath, not finishing his sentence. _This was not what she wanted._

“Change is slow,” Teagan said. “Be patient.”

He reached out to lay a hand on Alistair’s shoulder, but Alistair shrugged him off. He stalked out of the room without so much as a goodbye.

Alistair was so agitated that he turned first left, then abruptly right in the corridor. As a result he practically crashed into, of all people, Anora.

She took a step back, and it was plain by her face she was as caught off guard as he was. Then, she shook out her skirts and bobbed a small curtsy.

“Pardon me, your majesty,” she said. “I did not see you.”

Alistair shrugged and muttered something about it not mattering, then wove around her to continue on his way.

He knew that giving Anora her freedom had been the right thing to do. Legally she was his heir, and she would be a great help if they could win her trust. But being around her still gave Alistair the willies. He couldn’t believe Rora had even suggested he marry her.

This disloyal thought sent a stab of guilt through him, almost dizzying. But it was quickly interrupted by light, rushing footsteps on the flagstones behind him.

“Your majesty.”

Anora. She rushed up and fell into step beside him.

“I hope you will excuse the interruption,” she said. “But I could not help but overhear your discussion with Bann Teagan.”

_I bet you couldn’t,_ Alistair thought. But all he said was, “Ah.”

They continued down the corridor. Alistair said nothing more, so Anora continued.

“If I may be so bold, your majesty,” she said, “your plan was too rashly executed. I am not surprised it failed.”

Alistair felt his face go hot, but he kept his emotions under control. “I see."

“Reform is a fine thing,” Anora went on, “but you would do well to first earn the trust of your subjects through more modest measures. That is what I would do.”

“Yes,” Alistair said. “I’m sure you would have done much better.”

If Anora noted the sarcasm in his voice, she ignored it. She came to a stop in the corridor, forcing him to come to a stop as well, and faced him.

“I love this kingdom, your majesty,” she said. “And I want to see it governed well. To that end, I think it would be prudent for you and I to join forces.”

Alistair blinked at her. Teagan and Eamon had told him to expect a proposal of this sort, but he had hardly expected it so soon. That, and he was already on his last nerve. He spoke without thinking.

“Yes, very prudent,” he said. His sarcasm was even more apparent now. “And the idea of having influence over the king holds no appeal for you at all, I’m sure. You just ‘love your kingdom.’”

Anora pursed her lips, and stretched herself up to her full height. It always surprised him how tall she was, barely shorter than him.

“I _do_ love my kingdom,” she said. “Is it so shocking that I _want_ to have some influence over it?”

“It is when you’re so brazenly self-interested."

Anora’s pale cheeks went red, the first indication Alistair had seen of her anger.

“Do not talk to _me_ of self-interest,” she said. “Since becoming king, all you have tried to do is push through your little pet projects.”

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but Anora was on a roll now.

“You give no thought to the daily needs of your subjects,” she said. “You push and you push at your council, all in the name of some altruistic, ego maniacal—"

_“Enough!!”_

Alistair hadn’t intended to shout, but shout he did, loud enough that some nearby servants stopped to look at them and mutter. His face immediately went hot with embarrassment, but it was mixed with the anger that still coursed through him. He struggled to level out his voice.

“It is not—” He took a deep breath. “I don’t do these things for _me_. I do them because _she_ did so much for us. I want—” He shook his head, then said darkly, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Anora’s eyes widened. Then, to his shock and horror, they filled with tears. She stepped back.

“Anora—” he started.

But she was already hurrying away down the corridor.

Alistair sat in the palace garden, his face in his hands. He had hoped the fresh air would clear his head, but all he could think of was his conversation with Anora. Each time he replayed their altercation he felt worse.

How had he let things get so out of hand? He’d failed to control his temper, stuffed up a potentially useful alliance, and, what’s more, he’d hurt someone who was already hurting.

“I’m such an _idiot_ ,” he muttered, pressing his hands into his forehead.

Yes, Anora was frustrating, imperious and stuck-up, but she was also trying to help in her own way. And, different as they were, they had at least one thing in common.

_She wants to preserve Cailan’s legacy,_ Alistair thought. _Just like I want to preserve Rora’s._

He placed his hands on his lap, blinking in the sunlight and letting the breeze tickle his face, soft like his love’s hands had been. Images came to him of her warm brown eyes, the way she used to smile and tilt her head at him, encouraging. _You’ll be a good king,_ she had said. _I know it._

_I’m sorry,_ he thought _.  
_

At Eamon and Teagan’s suggestion, Alistair had arranged for Anora to have her own study and quarters in the palace, as a befitted a princess and heir. It was to her study that he went now.

He stopped outside the oak door and sighed. Then, gently, he knocked.

“An—Princess Anora?” He paused, then added, perhaps unnecessarily, “It’s Alistair.”

At first, there was no answer. Alistair waited for several moments. He was ready to give up on his plan (with some relief), when the door opened.

Alistair’s stomach lurched with guilt when he saw her. It was clear she’d been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she had forgotten to wipe her nose. She crossed her arms and sniffed, “Yes. What is it?”

He crossed his own arms, feeling stiff and uncomfortable. “I—” he began. “Look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I wasn’t being fair and I-I think you’re right. I _could_ use your help, if you’re still willing to give it.”

Instead of answering, Anora continued glaring at him. Unnerved, he took a step back.

“Anyway…” he said. “That was… all I wanted to say.”

He took another step back, about to turn and leave, when she spoke.

“I don’t actually think you’re out for yourself, you know,” she said. “You clearly just want things to change, and that’s not a bad thing.” To his surprise, she smiled slightly. “Cailan was like that.”

Alistair waited for her to say more.

“I’ll help you,” she said. “But, what I said before still stands. You’re going to have to be patient about your reforms.”

“All right,” Alistair said.

“And you need to listen to me. I _do_ know what I’m talking about.”

“I… I know you do.”

“Very well,” she said. She straightened again, chin held high, and turned to go back to her study.

Alistair, knowing this was as friendly as she was going to get for the time being, made to leave himself, but then—

“King Alistair.”

He turned, afraid that maybe she’d changed her mind, or wanted to scold him. But to his surprise she was smiling again, albeit stiffly.

“Thank you for giving me a chance.”

He nodded, and for the first time he grinned back. “It’s my pleasure, Princess Anora.”


	2. Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Grief/mourning, dissociation, past character death

“Are you ready for your speech, Alistair?” Teagan said, falling into step beside him and interrupting the palace’s head of staff at the same time. The elderly head of staff, who’d been going over the arrangements for today’s reception with the king, glared at the bann, who smiled apologetically. Alistair scratched his head.

“I… suppose so,” Alistair said.

“After a year of ruling a kingdom, you ought to have more confidence.”

“ _Almost_ a year.”

“He will be ready, Bann Teagan.”

It was Anora, coming from another door off the corridor to join them. The palace head of staff rolled his eyes, bowed, and left, clearly not willing to compete for the king’s attention. Alistair, for his part, looked suspiciously around. Who _else_ was going to pop into the corridor out of nowhere?

“We’ve been practicing daily,” Anora went on, falling into step with them. “There's nothing to worry about.”

“That’s reassuring,” Teagan said.

“I’m _here_ , you know,” said Alistair.

“I’ll see you later for rehearsal,” Anora said, addressing Alistair. “I need to dress for the ceremony.”

“Already?” said Alistair, but she had vanished down another passage. How did she _do_ that?

“I’m glad Anora is proving so helpful,” Teagan said once she was gone. “And that you two seem able to stand the sight of each other.”

Alistair shrugged, his mind barely on Teagan’s words. The fog that had been with him since the start of the day still hovered around his head. The other man put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he said. “I know it’s not exactly a happy day.”

Alistair smiled faintly. “I’m dealing with it,” he said. “I just want to get through the ceremony.”

“Once more,” Anora said.

The two of them were in an anteroom off the great hall, practicing one last time before they had to leave for Fort Drakon, where the ceremony would be held. Alistair stood with his notes in front of him while Anora sat listening in her chair. With a sigh, Alistair rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat.

“One year ago today,” he began, “we stood on this spot at the end of a desperate, bloody battle. Our victory, hard fought, was not without—”

“Stop,” Anora said. “Remember what we talked about. _Desperate_ and _bloody_. Emphasize those words.”

“Fine…” Alistair frowned and shuffled his papers. “One year ago today, we stood on this spot at the end of a—”

“No, no,” said Anora. She rose to her feet and began to pace in front of him.

“I didn’t even make it to bloody and desperate,” Alistair said, frowning. Anora shook her head.

“You sound bored,” she said. “Like you’re speaking from rote.”

“I _am_ speaking from rote,” Alistair said, unable to help himself.

“You know what I mean. Yesterday, you read with such passion. It was very moving.”

“Oh.” Had she ever complimented him like that before? “Thank you.”

She stopped arms crossed in front of her. “What’s different today?”

“I—I don’t know." Alistair blinked, head still aching. “I suppose I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Anora frowned, and he thought he saw a flash of sympathy cross her face. But it was quickly gone.

“More practice will wake you up,” she said, taking her seat. “Begin again.”

Alistair stood on the podium in front of Fort Drakon, looking out at the vast crowd. The day was cold but there had been a good turn out even so. It looked like the entire city--at least--was gathered to hear him speak.

He blinked and studied the paper in his hand again, trying to ignore the chilly wind. His head hurt again, and the scene in front of him kept fading, flickering out as his focus did.

_It had been cold a year ago, too, even in the midst of battle. He could still remember the wind in his face as he fought, so strange amidst the smoke and acrid burning. He’d looked for her in the confusion and, despite everything, his heart had warmed, leapt to see she was still fighting by his side…_

Alistair shook his head, eyes stinging and breath starting to come short and fast. He had to focus. He cleared his throat, looked out at the crowd, and began.

“One year ago today, we stood on this spot at the end of a desperate, bloody battle. Our victory, hard fought, was not without sacrifices…”

“You did _very_ well,” Teagan said.

The ceremony was over and they were back at the palace for the reception. Though today was also a day of mourning, Alistair and his advisors had agreed that it ought to be a day of celebration as well. Feasts were being held across the city at the royal treasury’s expense, even in the Alienage, and the palace’s great hall bustled with nobles and important civic figures. Alistair knew this was the right thing to do—it had been a hard year for the kingdom, still recovering from the Blight as it was—but still, it felt…

Alistair brought himself back to reality, forcing himself to smile at Teagan. “Thank you.”

“The people were touched by your words,” he said.

Alistair nodded. To be honest, he could barely remember the actual act of giving the speech. At some point during his mind had gone blank, so that at the end he’d been left gazing, unsure how he’d gotten to that point, at his tearful audience. All that practice with Anora must have made up for it.

Even now, Teagan was speaking but Alistair didn’t really hear what he said. Again, his mind drifted back to that day at Fort Drakon.

_There had been a moment in the battle when she’d looked back at him. The fighting had forced them to either side of the roof, her slightly in front of him, and it was hard to see her clearly between the flashing lights and the smoke. But he remembered her turning, her expression. It was almost like the one she’d given him on the day he’d left her. Disbelieving, confused, but this time, a hint of determination too. Then, she turned from him. She ran—_

The room swayed, and Alistair’s chest tightened to the point where he could barely breathe. He interrupted Teagan mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t… I have to…”

He ran from the room.

Despite the cold, Alistair went to the roof. It was one of the few places in the palace he could be alone. He stood panting, a faint sheen of sweat on his face, eyes on the vast, gray sky above him. Then, the tears came.

They were unstoppable. A sob forced its way out of his throat. He covered his face, sinking to the ground with his back against the high tower wall. His whole body shook.

He saw her. Over and over again he saw her. Quiet and contained as she’d been when they first met, giving away nothing. The way she looked when she laughed, eyes sparkling, brushing that loose strand of hair from her face, and in the mornings, gazing down at him like he was the most wonderful thing in the world. He saw the look of shock, the “oh” her mouth made when he’d told her it was over. And worst of all…

_She ran. Before he could make a move to stop her, she ran. It happened fast, too fast. The sword in her hands, her leap toward the Archdemon, a flash of lightning and—_

_A small, rag doll body flew through the air. For a moment, she was illuminated, suspended in midair. Then, she crashed to the ground._

A fresh sob burst from Alistair’s throat, too loud for him to stifle.

“Alistair?”

Anora’s voice was the first indication he had of her presence. He’d long since exhausted his tears but still sat huddled with his face in his knees. He didn’t look up.

Anora took a seat on an empty storage crate nearby.

“It’s cold,” she said.

He nodded, not answering.

“I heard your speech,” she said. “The practice was well worth it.”

He didn’t answer, and she sighed.

“Your words do her credit,” she said. “It is clear how much you loved her.”

This made Alistair look up, though he was embarrassed at the redness of his eyes. It was strange to hear Anora, sitting primly on the crate in her green formal dress, speak about such things. They only spoke of business when they were together, and they’d never spoken about the nature of his relationship with Rora. She must have guessed it.

“We weren’t… together anymore when we fought the Archdemon,” Alistair said quietly. His voice was hoarse. “I… I told her that we couldn’t be, if I was to be king.”

Anora sat quiet. He went on.

“We didn’t speak to each other, after that. We must’ve exchanged ten words before it happened.” He pressed his hand into his forehead, hard enough to leave a mark. “Days before her death, and I let her go over some _stupid_ principle.”

Anora shifted, and sighed.

“You did what you believed was right,” she said. “You can’t blame yourself for that.” Then with a bitter edge to her voice, “You know Cailan was going to set me aside?”

Alistair looked up, shook his head. Her smile was cold, bitter as her voice.

“I was hurt when I found out,” she said, “But, what else could he have done? Sometimes, we must accept the lot that’s given to us.”

Alistair rubbed his eyes. The fog that had settled over him that morning was fainter, starting to lift. Perhaps the cry was what he’d needed.

“Maybe,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Or maybe that’s not fair. Maybe he and I should have been better.”

Anora stared at him. There was an expression on her face he’d never seen before. Surprise and perhaps… gratitude? But it was quickly gone.

“Hypotheticals are very well,” she said, “but we can’t change the past.”

“I know,” he said. “Today was just… more overwhelming than I’d expected.”

“There are days like that.”

She stood, tall and willowy against the sky, and offered him her hand.

“Come back to the banquet,” she said. “If you feel poorly again, find me. We can talk.”

Alistair took her hand and got to his feet. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re… you’re all right, Anora.”

She raised her eyebrows, an expression that seemed to say, “You’re just realizing now?” But what she said was: “Let’s go. It’s frightfully cold up here.”

“Good idea."


	3. Things Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: character death, grief/mourning

Alistair stood in his quarters reading Leliana’s letter for what had to be the twentieth time. The last few lines, in particular:

_I’m sorry you weren’t there, Alistair,_ Leliana wrote in her pretty, looping script. _It was a beautiful ceremony. I hope it will comfort you to remember that Wynne lives on beside the Maker, as well as in our hearts._

Then it was signed: _Your friend, Leliana_

Alistair stared at the letter for a few more moments. Then, he folded it over and over, and placed it in the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed.

Alistair had known for years that Wynne wasn’t long for this world, but now that it had happened he couldn’t believe it. It was… unreal. Memories kept flashing back to him of the time he and Wynne had spent together—their long talks and the way her eyes flashed with humor at his questions. The letters she’d sent him over the course of the last ten years—few, but treasured—still lay in that same bedside drawer, folded up beneath the letter about her passing.

Wynne. Gone. She had been Alistair’s best living friend among their old party, and he hadn’t even been there to say goodbye. Not for the first time, he envied Leliana’s position and her freedom to move wherever she pleased. Not like him, trapped in the palace and tied to a strict routine.

As if on cue, a short, familiar knock sounded on his door.

“Alistair,” said the voice. “It’s Teagan. Are you ready?”

Alistair turned toward the door, heart sinking. Why hadn’t he thought to cancel his plans? All he wanted was to sit in his room alone, maybe go to bed early. But he didn’t like to break his commitments, especially so last minute.

“Coming,” he said at last. “Give me a moment.”

He and Teagan walked from his quarters to the palace library together. When they entered, Anora and Elrec, the palace’s grumpy head of staff, were already seated at the large, round table where the four of them had their weekly Wicked Grace game.

“It’s about time you arrived,” Anora said, turning in her seat.

Both she and Elrec already held a hand of cards each, and his frown was even deeper than usual.

“Elrec and I were playing a few practice hands,” she said. “Weren’t we, Elrec?”

The head of staff muttered something about the amount of gold he needed to win back. Anora giggled.

“Thankfully, we’ve come to the rescue,” Teagan said, taking his usual seat. “You should be able to win back that much and more from me.”

“You give yourself too little credit, Teagan,” said Anora.

As they joked, Alistair took the free seat beside Anora, feeling awkward and out of place. Their laughter brought back memories of similar times, similar games around the campfire with Wynne, Rora, Leliana, and the rest. Then he felt a tap on his arm.

“Would you care to deal, Alistair?” said Anora.

He nodded and reached for the cards.

“I’m glad you’re safely back from Redcliffe, Teagan,” Anora said as they played their first hand. “How did you find the roads?”

“Better than expected,” he replied, reaching for a new card. “But it seems luck was on my side. In a few spots it looked as though we’d just a missed a battle.”

Anora shook her head. The Mage-Templar conflict had only been getting worse these last few months.

_And bound to get much worse now,_ Alistair thought, remembering Leliana’s letter. He thought of Wynne again. How awful she must have felt when the conflict broke out, knowing that her people would be in such danger. He wished he could discuss it with her. She would have known what he, as king, ought to do.

“It’s your turn, Alistair,” Anora said, tapping his arm.

He thanked her, and forced himself to think about his next move. He played a moderately good hand, half listening as Elrec complained about the castle staff and Anora clucked her tongue in sympathy.

“What about you, Alistair?” Anora said, turning from the head of staff to look at him. “How have you been?”

Alistair hesitated. This was the moment he’d been dreading all night. If he brought up Wynne, he might make the evening awkward. But he didn’t want to lie and say he was fine either. So he cleared his throat.

“Um, actually…” he said. “You know my friend, Wynne? I received word today that she’s… passed.”

The group went quiet as Alistair briefly explained what happened. When he looked up, their faces were full of sympathy and concern. Teagan set his cards down and reached over to squeeze Alistair’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know she meant a lot to you.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s a dreadful shame,” said Anora. Her brows were knit in concern. “She always seemed like a kind woman.”

Even Elrec had something to say: “Sounds a lot like my old gran. Sorry to hear it, your majesty.”

“Are you sure you want to continue the game?” Teagan said. “No one would blame you if you wanted time to yourself.”

Alistair shook his head. “No. Let’s play. It’ll take my mind off it.”

“If you insist…” said Teagan.

“If you want to talk about it, we’re here,” said Anora.

Alistair nodded. “Thanks.”

They played on, but the chatter was quieter and more subdued for the rest of the evening.

The next day, Alistair woke to find a covered basket sitting outside his room. To his surprise, it was filled with his favorite varieties of cheeses, and atop them sat a small card:

_I know this won’t make it better, but I this is the least I can do. Once again, my I’m sorry for your loss._ The note was signed: _Your sort-of-uncle, Teagan._

At breakfast, a tasteful vase of daffodils waited for him beside his plate, and with them another note:

_Sorry about your friend, your majesty. Sincerely, Elrec_

Most surprising of all, though, was the handkerchief he found on his nightstand that evening. It was made of fine white silk and on it, carefully stitched, was a border of fine yellow flowers. Between them were embroidered the words:

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace – Transfigurations 10_. _With deepest sympathies, Anora._

Alistair held the handkerchief carefully in his hand. His eyes stung, but not from sadness. His heart was full with the knowledge that, much as things had changed, he still had friends who cared for him.


	4. Familiarity

The first time Alistair met Grand Enchanter Fiona (former Grand Enchanter, he reminded himself) he was struck by an odd feeling of familiarity. At first, he thought it was because she reminded him a bit of Rora. When she approached the throne—a small elven woman, clad in purple, with brown hair and vibrant eyes—his heart gave a squeeze. It was like seeing a figure step out of the past, or a possible future.

But when she rose and he got a better look at her, he realized that wasn’t quite right. Her features were sharper than Rora’s, her skin darker, her eyes a little wiser, but still there was an almost eerie familiarity. Even more so when she spoke.

“The mages thank you for your generosity, your majesty,” she said.

Her voice, with its faint Orlesian accent, was even less familiar to him. Yet, hearing it flicked a kind of switch in his mind, a nagging feeling that he knew it.

“Wait,” he said, as she made to back away from the throne. She stopped, eyebrows raised but voice calm.

“Yes, your majesty?”

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. What was he going to do? Ask if they’d met each other before, when he knew for a fact they hadn’t? So, instead he coughed and said, “Nothing. Never mind.”

Something flickered across Fiona’s features, quickly gone. She bowed again. “Very good, your majesty.”

Fiona left for Redcliffe with the other mages immediately after their audience. Alistair was left with a kind of restlessness and a sense of something unfinished.

Anora noticed during their weekly chess game when he easily lost four times in a row. After the fifth checkmate, Anora sat back in her chair, hands in her lap, and gazed at him shrewdly.

“What’s gotten into you today?” she said. “You haven’t been this awful at chess in years.”

Alistair pushed back his chair and sighed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Anora, what do you know about Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

Anora raised her eyebrows, unsurprising, since the topic came entirely out of nowhere.

“Nothing special,” she said. “She’s leading her people down a very bad road, but you know my views on that.”

Alistair nodded, unwilling to say anything more. He couldn’t count the number of times they’d argued about the mage rebellion in council meetings, and he didn’t particularly care to rehash those discussions.

“She’s also too old for you,” Anora said coolly.

“ _No,”_ he said. “No, no, no. That’s _not_ why I asked about her.”

Anora smiled. “Just teasing.”

Alistair sighed. “There’s being deadpan, and there’s being… I don’t know, a golem,” he said. “You’re more on the latter end of the scale.”

Anora shrugged, but her smile remained.

“I heard the Grand Enchanter used to be a Grey Warden,” she said.

“Well, I know that,” Alistair said. “That definitely stood out when I looked into her background.”

“I recall my father talking about it once."

Alistair internally winced at the mention of Loghain, but not very much. More than a decade into his friendship with Anora, he could sort of understand people’s admiration of her father.

Anora looked thoughtful. “Hmm… What did he say?” She frowned. “Something about her and your father going on some mission together, and then her leaving the Grey Wardens afterward.”

“She was traveling with my father?” Alistair said. “Why?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Anora said. “He only mentioned it once. All I remember was the mission, and then her leaving the Grey Wardens.”

Alistair sat back in his chair, frowning deeply. Anora replaced the queen on the board.

“Let’s play again,” she said. She grinned. “I’d like to beat my record.”

Alistair helped her rearrange the pieces on the board, and the Grand Enchanter was quickly forgotten in his next defeat.

As Alistair readied himself for bed that night, however, his thoughts returned to the subject of the Grand Enchanter. He tried to recall the sources he’d read about why she left the Grey Wardens. They all said something about her “losing the Taint,” but none had specified how or why. None had mentioned a mission with the late king, either. Had Anora been mistaken? That wasn’t like her.

Climbing into bed, Alistair promised himself he would do more research into the matter, perhaps make an attempt to speak to the Grand Enchanter again—after things in the kingdom settled down. This resolution made, he shut his eyes.

That night he dreamed of singing, of soft arms holding him as he rested, and of warmth and safety like he’d never known.


	5. Looking Back

“Alistair,” said Teagan, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you, seeing as you’re off to Denerim tomorrow.”

Alistair looked up from his wine. He and Teagan were sharing one last drink in the study at Redcliffe. Alistair had been there a week, helping to put things back in order after the mages departed with the Inquisition.

“I hope it isn’t anything too important,” Alistair quipped. “I was hoping for at least one more moment of relaxation before I wade back into the political sea.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Teagan said. “I wanted to ask if you’ve given any more thought to the question of marriage.”

Alistair, who’d just taken another sip of wine, swallowed hard. He set his goblet down.

“Do we have to talk about this now, Teagan?” he said.

“Yes. We do,” the arl said. “Every time I bring it up, you change the subject. And with things in the kingdom the way they are, Maker knows when I’ll have a chance to broach it again.”

“Well, to answer your question,” Alistair said, “No. I haven’t thought about it.”

“Really? Not at all?”

“I’ve been… busy,” Alistair said. “You know, running the kingdom? That thing you and Eamon told me to focus all my attention on?”

“And you’ve done a fine job,” Teagan said. “But, Alistair. It’s been more than ten years since you were crowned, and you’ve yet to produce an heir. There are Rifts in the sky, Templars and mages at each other’s throats. What if something happened to you?”

“So, what do you suggest I do?” Alistair said. “Put an ad on the Chantry board? Send women flowers while the sky falls in?”

“That is more or less what I’m suggesting,” Teagan said. “We could speak to some of the noble families, find out who has eligible daughters…”

“What about the Inquisitor?” Alistair said, unable to help himself. “She seems intelligent and capable. Not to mention very fetching. Let’s see if she’s free.”

Teagan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Because the king marrying a Dalish mage would go over _so well_ with the people…”

“Maybe they’d welcome the surprise.” Alistair took a sip of wine, and Teagan sighed once more.

“I really wish you would take this seriously,” he said. Then, eyes on the carpet, he added: “If this is about… her…”

Alistair frowned, glaring at his drink. “It’s not.”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

Alistair didn’t answer, and Teagan’s shoulders heaved. Alistair noticed, not for the first time, how old his uncle was beginning to look. His hair was gray at the temples, and his face was more deeply lined.

“Think about it, will you?” Teagan said at last. He sat up straight in his chair, and tried to smile. “Now, let’s say no more about it. I’d rather end our visit on a happier note.”

The two sat in awkward silence for the next half hour, sipping their wine.

The next morning, Alistair rose early, dressed, and headed straight for the edge of town. Outside, the sun was just rising. The sleepy guards posted at the castle gates made no effort to stop him, and he saw no one on the way save a few farmers who touched their forelocks as he passed. The village square was silent and deserted, the windows in the nearby cottages mostly dark.

Alistair removed his hood and solemnly faced the stone monument in the center of the copse of grass.

It’s expansiveness always surprised him, this massive tomb surrounded by torches. It seemed too formal for her, too remote. The only thing she would have liked about it was the statue of the large stone griffon on top. She always had liked griffons.

Alistair approached and placed his usual offering, a bouquet of roses, at the griffon’s feet. Bunches of flowers lay at various spots around the base of the monument—more roses he’d left the past few days, daffodils, Andraste’s Grace (could those be from Leliana?), and many, many others. It gladdened him to see this spot so well loved.

Flowers placed, Alistair took a seat on one of the monument’s stone steps. Leaning his back against the base of the statue, he exhaled.

 _I’m leaving today, love_ , he thought. _I hope you like the flowers._

The wind whistled in his ears, lightly touched his face, but he knew better than to imagine she heard him. If what the Chant said was true then Rora was with the Maker, not lurking around her tomb. For his part, Alistair preferred to think of her being nowhere at all. He hated the notion of her staying twenty years old while he got to grow and change, and he couldn’t see her enjoying a likely very boring existence at the Maker’s side.

It comforted him, however, to imagine he was talking to her. It always clarified things, just like really talking to her had.

 _Teagan wants me to get married,_ he thought, bringing up the thing foremost on his mind. _Can you believe it? I’d have to host balls and talk to people I don’t like. Probably end up married to some noblewoman I have nothing in common with, too._

He sighed heavily, tilting his head back against the stone, which was cold and pokey. He wondered how sympathetic Rora would have been to his plight. After all, she’d suggested he marry Anora all those years ago. Would she have agreed with Teagan? Told him to go through with a marriage, love match or not? He frowned.

 _Maybe I’m being childish,_ he thought. _Running away from my responsibilities again. Maybe I should just accept it. I mean, no matter who I marry, she’s not going to be you._

The thought sent a stab of pain through his heart. It was true. Rora had been more then just a lover. She’d been his best friend, someone he could talk endlessly with about anything at all. Someone who’s company he never tired of. After knowing love like that, the idea of marriage without it sounded like pure torment.

He bowed his head, pressing his face into his balled up fists. _I can’t do it,_ he thought. _I can’t._

 _Yes, you can_ , a voice seemed to reply. _Maybe you can find something like that again. Maybe it’s worth a try._

The sun was higher in the sky. Alistair stood slowly, stretched, and sighed.

“I have to be getting back.” He hesitated. “I’ll… I’ll think about it, all right?”

Then, after glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he placed his hands on the base of the tomb. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the rough stone, and breathed in, then out.

Alistair stayed like that for several moments, nothing but the press of rock against his skin and his own breathing. The breeze rustled his hair and clothes. He stepped back, the cold of the stone still aching on his palms.

“Anyway,” he said. “Miss you.”

A day of hard riding later, Alistair’s mood was somewhat improved. By the time he and his retinue arrived at the castle of the bann they were to stay with that night, he was even viewing the marriage issue more philosophically.

It couldn’t hurt, he told himself as he was lying in bed that night, to at least look into the idea. There was no need to rush into anything. Despite what Teagan said, he still had many years ahead, even with the Calling in his future.

He stared out into the darkness.

 _It’s been ten years since she died,_ he reminded himself. _It’s time you moved on. Wouldn’t she_ want _you to move on?_

Some days, the idea of moving on did seem possible. There were plenty of days when her memory strengthened him, and he could look back on their short time together with more fondness and gratitude then pain. Still, it was a hard thing to accept.

Alistair sighed, and turned over to his side.

Eventually, he managed to drift off into a strange sleep of dreams that were more like memories. The touch of Rora’s skin on his own, giggles and sighs in the warmth of their tent, stolen kisses in the woods… He turned and tossed in his sleep.

Alistair’s next memory was of awakening in the dead of night. Half asleep as he was, his only thought was of the dream that had awoken him. He’d heard an eerie singing in his head, beautiful but so loud… then he shut his eyes, and the dream was forgotten.

Days later, Alistair and his guards crossed through the gates of the palace in Denerim. Though it was already early evening, there to greet them was an entire retinue of servants and guards, arrayed just outside the wide double doors of the palace. At the very center of the group was Anora, her posture impeccable as always, regal in a high necked violet dress. As soon as her eyes lit on Alistair, however, she burst into a grin.

Alistair returned the grin and trotted his horse toward her and the group. He swung out of his saddle.

“Hello, milady. Everyone.” He nodded at the staff. “You can all go back inside. Thank you for taking the time.”

The servants gave him smiles and words of greeting before dispersing. Alistair then thanked and dismissed his guards, leaving just him and Anora.

“I’m glad you’re back safely,” she said. “We’ve been hearing disquieting reports here.”

“I’m glad to be back,” Alistair said, taking the reins of his horse to lead it back to the stables. “Not that I really faced much danger. Once the mages left, it was mostly a lot of talking to disgruntled villagers and having wine and cheese with Teagan. Not such a bad week.”

“Still,” Anora said, “you could have been walking into a very dangerous situation. It’s lucky things were settled so peacefully.”

This gave Alistair pause. She had a point. What if things _had_ gone differently? What if the Inquisitor hadn’t been able to negotiate with the mages, and then he arrived at exactly the wrong moment? Teagan’s words echoed in his head:

_You’ve yet to produce an heir… what if something happened to you?_

“At any rate,” Anora said, bringing him back to reality, “I truly am glad your back.” She hesitated. “It’s… too quiet here without you.”

Alistair wasn’t sure what to say. It was unusual for Anora to speak so frankly about her feelings.

“I missed you too,” he admitted. “Teagan’s all right, but not nearly as much fun to talk to.”

This seemed to please her. She smiled, and heat crept up Alistair’s neck to his ears at the pleasant idea that he’d been missed.

The pair of them arrived at the stables, and Alistair patted his mount and handed him off to the hostler. Then, he and Anora continued toward the palace. Alistair was quiet, his thoughts back on Teagan’s words and all the ways he could have died between Redcliffe and Denerim. It wasn’t long before Anora noticed.

“Well, _something’s_ clearly on your mind,” she said. “You’re not making any of those awful jokes of yours. A great disappointment, to be sure.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He was thinking about how Anora always gave him good, or at least thought provoking, advice. Perhaps now was the time to avail himself of it.

“Er, Anora,” he said. Then, in a rush: “What do you think about me finding a wife?”

He thought Anora’s step faltered, but he must have imagined it. She was never anything but graceful.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“Just… you know,” he said. “I’ve been king for awhile, but still have no children, so…” He trailed off. A thin line appeared between Anora’s brows, a sign of deep though. She glanced over at him.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” she said.

“What? To marry? No.” For some reason, he went red. “Actually, I was wondering if you did.”

“Me?”

“Um, yes.”

They stopped walking, and he turned to face her. They were still just outside the palace, and it occurred to him that he ought to keep his voice down, what with this being a fate-of-the-kingdom matter.

“I just thought… you grew up noble, so you might know who to talk to, the best way to go about it. All those things I _don’t_ know.”

He scratched his head. He couldn’t read the expression on her face at all. It was oddly pinched, like she was in pain.

“I don’t know. It was just an idea,” he said.

“No,” Anora said quickly. “I… I think that makes sense.”

She blinked, the odd look on her face smoothing out, and suddenly she was businesslike.

“My standing among the noble families sank after… my father,” she said. “But, my work as your councilor may have raised it. I will… make some inquiries.”

“Thanks,” said Alistair. “I knew I could count on you.”

She nodded, turned to leave.

“I’m… glad to see you, Anora,” he said after her.

She paused. When she looked back, her smile was thin, but it was genuine. Then she turned and hurried off down the corridor, skirt sweeping behind her.

That evening, after Alistair had bathed off the sweat from the road and readied himself for bed, he sat in his quarters and wondered what exactly had happened with Anora. It took several moments—much longer than it should have—to realize what was wrong.

Alistair often overlooked that Anora was not only his councilor, but also his legal heir. It didn’t come up often, and in conversations with Teagan and Eamon it was implicitly understood that Anora’s status as heir was temporary. Anora became a controversial figure after Loghain’s execution, and she was five years older than the king—neither of these good qualities for inheriting a throne. Everyone knew that the goal was for Alistair to _produce_ an heir, a Theirin child whose claim to the throne no one could dispute. Anora knew this as well, and had always made clear that she accepted it.

But, Alistair reasoned, surely it still hurt when people _reminded_ her of this fact. She had gone from being a queen to an afterthought, even if she did possess a good amount of political power, and if Alistair married and had a child, her status would be further reduced. Of course thinking of that would upset her.

Alistair massaged his brow. He supposed he had thought that being involved in the process might make Anora feel better. Make it clear that she was still important, included and respected. But he’d gone about it too rashly, and clearly offended her in the process. He resolved that the next time he saw Anora, he would apologize and make sure she really wanted to help him find a wife. As her colleague and friend, he owed her that.

That settled, Alistair climbed into bed. As he shut his eyes, he kept seeing Anora’s wavering smile, her blue eyes when she’d looked back at him in the corridor. He pulled the covers tighter around himself. Alistair had seen Anora angry, exasperated, sad… but he’d never seen a look quite like that in her eyes. Something like longing.

He drifted off to sleep, still wondering.

Later, Alistair was awoken again by a strange sound, a faint singing in his head. Faint, but stronger than the last time. A sort of ringing that echoed and reverberated between his ears. He sat up, still blinking away sleep, and hit at his forehead as if he was trying to shake the sound out. Soon it faded away, but he was left with a faint panic.

_Could it be…?_

“You’re quiet again,” Anora commented the next morning.

Alistair blinked, fighting off the tiredness that manifested as pressure behind his eyes. It was late morning, and the two of them were in her study going through the family records of Anora’s noble contacts. He shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He chose not to elaborate further, and Anora didn’t ask, though that little line had appeared between her brows again.

In the light of day, Alistair’s panic had faded along with the singing. Surely, he told himself, he hadn’t _really_ heard the Calling last night. By Grey Warden reckoning he still had fifteen or twenty years before he was due for it. True, the singing had _seemed_ vivid, but that could have been a side effect of his exhaustion from traveling, or stress about this wife finding business. Yes, that had to be it.

“What about this family?” Anora said, finger poised over a line in her book. “They have three daughters, all born within ten years of you, and they own quite a bit of land. We could get in touch with them.”

“I suppose,” Alistair said vaguely.

“I’ll write them.” Anora searched the desk for paper and quill to make a note. Alistair watched her, his eyes inexplicably drawn to where her blonde hair met the nape of her neck. He blinked and shook his head.

“Er, Anora,” he said. “Are you really all right? Helping me with all this, that is?”

She turned to look at him, quill poised in her delicate hand. “Of course, Alistair,” she said. “I agreed, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but… it doesn’t make you uncomfortable? If I have a child, you’ll become third in line for the throne.”

Anora leaned against her desk. Her voice was tired.

“I don’t care about that any more, Alistair,” she said. “I did, once. A great deal. But now…” She shook her head. “I just want the kingdom well cared for. It’s future assured, and to serve in whatever way I can.” She smiled. “Also, I consider it a favor for a friend.”

When she smiled, one laugh line appeared at the corner of her mouth, and a few more crinkled next to her eyes. Far from making her look old, they gave her smooth, pale face a character it had lacked when she was younger. Alistair smiled back, and for a moment the room spun. He shook his head, and quickly wrote the sensation off as tiredness.

“Well, if you’re really sure…” he said.

Anora turned away and reached for the paper that had been her original goal. Alistair turned his attention back to his own book, going through the list of names there. As they worked, he was strangely aware of every move Anora made, even when he wasn’t looking at her.

Alistair woke that night clutching his head. His heart raced, painful, as the singing slowly faded.

This dream had been far more vivid than the last, and even half-awake the images were still burned into his retinas. In the dream he was in a dark space, close and hard to move in, and he felt his way through the blackness, panting, stumbling, half crawling. But all the while, filled with elation. The singing grew louder the farther he went, and his only desire was to reach its source. _Soon,_ he’d thought. _Soon now…_

Awake, Alistair shuddered violently.

As the weeks faded to months, Alistair’s dreams got worse, but he told no one about them. He and his council were up to their ears in reports of further bloodshed and unrest around the kingdom—the Inquisition attacked by that new Tevinter cult, bizarrely mutated Templars roaming the countryside, more demons pouring through Rifts in the veil. Alistair and his council could barely keep up with it all.

Not that there was much they _could_ do, aside from minimizing the damage and trying to clean up wherever the Inquisition couldn’t. With things in such disarray, Alistair couldn’t bring himself to tell his colleagues that they might be about to lose their king as well.

In a strange way, he was glad for his meetings with Anora where they looked over his marriage prospects. Despite the time that had passed, they made little progress. More often than not they ended up in fits of laughter over some odd detail in the records, or deciding that the choices were, for whatever reason, inappropriate. Alistair knew that they ought to be taking the whole thing more seriously, but it was a good distraction from the dreams.

More than ever though, Alistair wished he could talk to Rora. He wanted to ask her what death was like.

Something was different, this time. As he and the Darkspawn ran, their tunnel widened out, full of heat and light. This was it. They rounded the corner and—

The Archdemon roared before them, in all its glory. The singing rang louder than ever. The singing was everything, all encompassing. So loud it hurt. He opened his mouth and screamed.

Alistair woke, still screaming, but the sound didn’t fade. With a cry of pain he covered his ears, but the sound was in his head. Barely aware of what he did, he stumbled out of bed, reaching for his clothing in a blind panic. He had to get out, had to go. But the noise was too loud, too much. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think—

When Alistair opened his eyes again, and he was lying on the floor. Light streamed through the windows, and he realized that he must have passed out, collapsed on the floor of his room while trying to leave. Groggy and sore, he sat up.

At first he thought his ears were ringing, but then he realized that the music was still in his head. Faded, but ever present. Sitting on the floor of his room, he pressed his hands into his face. There was no denying it now.

Frantically, Alistair began to pack. He was terrified that if he stopped, he would be forced to think about the full implications of what was happening.

He wasn’t going to need much where he was going. Simple clothes, a bedroll, money for emergencies, a tinderbox… He’d pick up some rations from the kitchen on his way out, and get the armor and weapons he needed from the armory. If he left now, it was possible he’d avoid being seen.

It was better this way. He would depart everyone’s lives without fanfare. They would be upset to find him gone, but it was better than everyone making a fuss over him, panicking about the fate of the kingdom, and trying to come up with alternatives. There was no way out of this, and the kingdom was going to be fine, regardless of what Teagan said. Anora would be a good queen.

_Anora…_

For a moment, he saw her in his mind’s eye. Anora laughing, a dainty hand over her mouth. The lines beside her eyes. Her shrewd smile when she knew something he didn’t and her graceful posture. Dizzying guilt and doubt flooded him.

Was he really going to leave without a word to his best friend?

Within the hour, Alistair was on the road and riding away from the palace. He rode a tan mare, not his usual warhorse, and wore a cloak with a hood to hide his face.

Inside he was all numbness, save for the persistent ringing in his ears. Everything, from the inside of his mind to the landscape that he rode through, seemed terribly far away and unreal. He wondered if this was how Rora felt before the Archdemon.

In the end, Alistair had spoken to no one before he left. He went to Anora’s room and stood outside, but couldn’t bring himself to knock. Instead he slipped a note under her door, explaining why he was going and thanking her for her years of advice and friendship. For all he knew she was reading the letter right now.

 _Coward._ The word came unbidden into his mind. _Even after all these years, all you do is run away._

He forced the thought aside and urged his horse on faster.

Alistair rode until it was nearly light, then camped not far from the main road. But he barely slept. When he tried the Calling grew worse, so loud in his head that he could barely doze. If he did start to nod off, it was only in fits and starts full of nightmares. He ended up rising within a few hours and was back on the road just as the sun came up.

The next two, three days were about the same. He saw hardly anyone on the road, and he scarcely stopped to rest. When he camped he slept poorly. He would have foregone stopping entirely if his horse hadn’t needed the rest.

Alistair should have been exhausted, but he was fully fixed on his destination. He should have been lonely, but he was no stranger to loneliness. He had come into this world with no one. All his friends had gone on without him in one way or another. He would leave this world alone too, just as he always knew he would.

By the fourth day, Alistair was feeling the effects of lack of sleep and the constant ringing out of the Calling. There were times when, with a start, he realized he had dozed off on his horse and had no idea how long he’d been riding like that. Still he kept on.

As the sun grew low in the sky, the landscape became more familiar. Alistair found himself, half asleep, turning off the main road and taking a route well known to him. Habit, working through the exhaustion, must have kicked in.

He rounded the last corner and there it was: the glade at the edge of Redcliffe village, in which Rora’s tomb sat.

Alistair swung off the horse and walked forward. Everything seemed vague and far away, and it was like he was moving through water. He came to the tomb and spread his palm across the rough, sun-warmed stone.

He sighed and pressed his forehead into the rock, closing his eyes. He felt oddly calm, the Calling quieter than it had been in days. Maybe it was his imagination, but it was like he could feel Rora’s presence all around him.

Alistair woke with the sun shining in his eyes, in a seated position with his back pressed against Rora’s tomb. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but that must have been what happened. Though he was stiff and sore all over from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, he was surprisingly well rested and felt sharper than he had in days. And why was it so quiet?

He sat there for a moment, and then it dawned on him. He touched his head.

“The Calling,” he said. “It’s gone.”

“Well of course it’s gone. It wasn’t real, you silly, silly man.”

Alistair looked up. He didn’t think he could be more surprised, but he was wrong. Walking toward him was Anora, dressed in a traveling cloak and looking both pale and oddly flushed at the same time. Before he could say anything, she sat down beside him with a _whoosh_ of her skirts.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Well, Teagan did. But I’m the one who came.”

She removed her gloves, placing them in her lap. Then, she turned so she was facing him. She smiled sweetly, but her eyes flashed.

“Now, do kindly tell me what possessed you to do such a bloody stupid thing.”

The next several moments were some of the most uncomfortable of Alistair’s life. When Anora asked her question, he was still so caught off guard that all he could do was stammer and ask why she was there.

“Your letter, of course,” she said. “Did you truly think I was going to let you go charging into the Deep Roads for no reason? Much less without a proper goodbye?”

But the Calling. He’d heard it, felt it. How could it be false?

“Some trick of that creature that opened the Rift,” Anora explained. “All the Grey Wardens heard it until the Inquisitor stopped it. Which you might have found out sooner had you not been such a rash fool.”

Alistair knew Anora well enough to see she was furious, and he realized he didn’t blame her. He _had_ acted like a rash fool.

“I-I thought it was real,” he said, trying to explain. “I thought I _had_ to leave.”

“I know,” Anora said with sigh. “But why not tell anyone, Alistair? How do you think that made us feel? We could have _helped_ you.”

He didn’t answer. He was numb, and, suddenly, ashamed. His mind went to the day Rora had died, the day she ran at the Archdemon. He realized suddenly that he understood Anora’s feelings exactly. Through the grief, he’d been furious at Rora for doing something like that without talking to anyone.

“I’m sorry, Anora,” he said.

She looked over at him, her eyes pained. Suddenly, she reached over and took his hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “But… it’s not me you should apologize too. It’s yourself. You value yourself so little, Alistair. It breaks my heart.”

Despite his surprise, he didn’t pull away. His heart thudded.

“I… I don’t,” he said. But it was a feeble protest.

“You _do._ Why else would you run off on your own like that? Why else would you come here? You think we would be better off without you.”

Alistair wanted to protest, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead he squeezed her hand tighter. She reached out and took his other hand as well, clasping them near her heart.

“Stop using yourself so poorly,” she said. “No one is allowed to treat my dearest friend that way. Not even you.”

 _Dearest friend._ The phrase echoed in Alistair’s head, and as it did something clicked into place in his mind. He saw her anew—framed in the sunlight, wisps of her golden hair loose, her eyes so concerned, and that small line of worry between her brows. The world shifted.

Removing his hand from hers, he reached out to gently clasped her cheek. She blinked, surprised, but didn’t shift. Alistair leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Immediately she returned it, leaning in. Her lips were soft and full, and she kissed with a steadiness and intensity that was just like her.

Alistair pulled back. His ears began to roar as he realized what he’d done. But Anora was smiling, her cheeks bright red. She laughed.

“I was beginning to think that would never happen,” she said.

“It-it was okay?” Alistair said. There was so much happening today, it really was hard to keep up. “I mean, it hardly seems like the right time. What with you trying to comfort me and—”

“Shh.” Anora pressed a finger to his lips. “We can worry about all that later, Alistair. All right?”

For the first time that day, he smiled as well. “I guess we can.”

She leaned in and kissed him one more time, quick and tender. Then she pulled away and rose, reaching for his hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Come, Alistair,” she said. “Teagan is waiting.”

They walked away from the tomb together, hand in hand. It wasn’t until later that Alistair realized he hadn’t looked back even once.


End file.
